


A nonconformist's view on conformity

by vxlleyhxe



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Highschool AU, I cant tell is Tsukishima is hot or just fucking annoying, M/M, prob both tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:36:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25352536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vxlleyhxe/pseuds/vxlleyhxe
Summary: "Tsukishima is truly an extraordinary being. Call him a jackass, or lazy, or weird, but never ordinary."Short story about a boring art project turned not-so-boring by Tsukishima's usual antics and an ever-present sexual tension between the two./ I got inspired to write this after reading Stoplights by 5yenwish for the millionth time (Old fic, but gold)// I really wanted to make Tsukishima a complicated, hard-to-read type character in this but he comes off as a bit of a dick that says shit like "schadenfreude" and "voyeurism". Oops.
Relationships: Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 83





	A nonconformist's view on conformity

Attending high school in the early years of manhood brings forth many expectations. Art class is not one of them. It’s the type of class that sneaks up from behind you, gears up and bites you in the ass when you least expect it. When reminiscing on high school years, not a single soul will wistfully muse over their wonderful art class experience.

So why do Tsukishima and Yamaguchi have to attend this fucking class? The people running the curriculum must experience schadenfreude to force them, seniors, almost grown ass adults, to partake in the “beauty” that is fully understanding and appreciating art to its highest values. Which is all nice and dandy, a lovely hobby for many refined people, but surely not the type of thing an eighteen year old almost-grad would like to spend their time doing. There are many things a teen boy thinks about on a daily basis, the “deeper meaning behind the masterful construction of shapes that is Guernica” is not one of them.

Yamaguchi likes to think that he’s creative. Creative in a basic sense, a sense in which he can utilize his creativity to render tasks more easily in day-to-day life. Sitting in front of a blank canvas with the minimalistic instructions of “Do whatever you want to the canvas and turn in your final work at the end of class” really makes one realize that perhaps you aren’t as creative as you once thought, and that perhaps you would rather go back to learning about the different types of brush strokes used to paint the St.Peter's basilica. Anything but free creative reign.

Yamaguchi turns to his friend that he knows for a fact is a thinker, not a doer. “D’you know what you’re going to paint yet?” Yamaguchi asks, chewing on the back of his pencil in thought while staring vacantly at the clean slate in front of him. Something so pure and untouched is insanely daunting, so much so that Yamaguchi can practically feel his breath tainting the perfect canvas as he leans over it. 

“I have a couple of ideas, none of which I’m particularly interested in acting upon at the moment.” Tsukishima responds, further proving Yamaguchi’s point. Thinker, not doer.

“Well, I’m lost.” Yamaguchi states.

“Clearly.” Tsukishima agrees.

Tsukishima leans back in his chair, crossing an arm behind his head to support it before raising his left arm, pale and unsleeved, into the air. 

“Mrs?” He asks, voice not too loud. Tsukishima never repeats himself if he can avoid it, and so he talks at a volume not too soft to be considered shy but not too loud to be commanding. Although the commanding-ness is implied, seeing as many a person bend to his will just by being intimidated by his height and general aura. Yamaguchi can admit that Tsukishima has an air about himself that really just makes Yamaguchi want to follow out his every last order. That doesn't sound too masochistic, does it? No, just the perfect amount of normal, with a little bit of sexual attraction to his terrifyingly imposing best friend. Only a little.

Their art teacher raises her head, standing at a short and stumpy five feet with untamed hair and gaudy hoops. “Yes?” She asks, a permanent frown adorning her face, unflattering bright pink lipstick smudges along her chin. 

“The concept for this project is to be creative, and to have free will and choice of self, is that not correct?” The teacher already looks confused, seeing as her profession is most definitely not the english language, and Tsukishima speaks about as well versed as a college professor. But alas, she nods anyways, the poor unassuming fool. She’s about to be brought in by Tsukishima’s award winning persuasion techniques by twisting one’s will and ways until he gets exactly what he wants, the clever bastard.

“Well, I feel that my productivity levels will certainly be heightened if I were permitted to leave the room and work someplace more enlightening, perhaps bringing along an associate to keep me company. What I mean to say, in simpler terms, admittedly, is that I want to work on this project somewhere less noisy. Can I bring a friend? Please and thank you.” Yamaguchi has begun to drum his fingers on the desk, matching the bounce of Tsukishima’s left leg that is crossed over the right and tapping on the ground. Judging by the complexed look on their teachers' face, Tsukishima has won the battle of words. 

Their victory is set even further in stone when the teacher nods once, then returns to her laptop without further discussion. Had it been any other kid, she most likely would have denied them this opportunity to leave the class, but as Yamaguchi had mentioned before, Tsukishima has a particular knack at these things.

Tsukishima stands up with poise, holds his 8-by-10 inches canvas at arm’s distance and gestures loosely for Yamaguchi to follow him out of the room. Yamaguchi hops up, gathers his canvas under one arm, tucks a pencil behind his ear and catches up to Tsukishima, who has already left the classroom. 

“So where are we going?” Yamaguchi asks, ready to follow.

“Nowhere in particular. Anywhere but there,” Tsukishima says vaguely. “Being around so many insolent people really puts a stopper on my creative thinking.” Yamaguchi snickers at this and Tsukishima smirks half-assedly.

They wander the hallways mindlessly, in a calm silence, before Tsukishima thinks out loud. 

“Just to garner your opinion on this, Yamaguchi, but do you prefer going up stairs or down?” He asks.

“Is that even a question? Down is much easier than up.”

“I suppose, but the fact of the matter is that we have to do both anyway, so I guess it doesn't really matter what our opinions are on this. Did you know,” Tsukishima starts, “that when presented with the choice of walking up stairs or taking an escalator, 70% of people would take the escalator?” 

“No surprises there,” Yamaguchi comments. “People are lazy, escalators are convenient. What about it?” He asks, playing along with Tsukishima’s aimless banter.

“Studies show that a substantial 95% of people would choose stairs over an escalator if the escalator is located further away. Does that make you wonder about anything?” Tsukishima poses.

“That 95% of people have common sense?” Yamaguchi counters.

“That 5% of people don’t.”

“I suppose that would be your opinion. What if I was a part of that hypothetical 5%?” Yamaguchi asks.

“You would be truly running against a conformist society, now wouldn’t you. I suppose you're also the type of person who puts on their socks before their pants, or the milk before the cereal?” Tsukishima turns to look at him. 

Yamaguchi responds with an indignant little groan. “As if I would commit such sins. Milk before cereal is the biggest injustice in this world, second to only people preferring the new Blaire witch project movie to the old one.”

Tsukishima chortles. “It was shit, wasn’t it. Some things are just better left untouched.”

“Especially movies.”

“Damn straight. On the topic of milk, and moronic people with feebleminded opinions, here comes the embodiment of said topics.” Tsukishima gestures with his head to the grouchy looking, raven haired boy in their grade speaking animatedly with a short redhead across the hall. Enter Kageyama and Hinata.

“Hey lovebirds, what are you talking about?” Tsukishima calls out to them in a mocking tone, no doubt trying to make light of both his and Yamaguchi’s boredom by eliciting an entertaining reaction from either of the two.

“What did you call us?” Kageyama turns around aggressively , hands fisting at his sides, foot tapping angrily after being in Tsukishima’s proximity for less than five seconds.

“Woah, I know you're happy to see me, but try to keep it in your pants, all right?” Tsukishima clicks his tongue with a smirk, hands in his pockets.

Hinata just rolls his eyes, grabbing on to Kageyama’s arm. “Beat it, Tsukishima. We’re really not in the mood for this right now.”

“I’m sure you two are in the mood for SOMETHING, I just can’t decide whether I want to stay long enough to watch or not. Must be my voyeurism kink kicking in.” 

Yamaguchi blushes at how freely Tsukishima can run his mouth while angering others so easily. He is so fluent at it by now, it has to be second nature.

“Suck my dick, Tsukishima.” Kageyama growls and turns away, Hinata scampering after him. 

“I’d rather if you could suck mine. Don’t know if you could take it, though,” Hinata turns around to flip him off, to which Tsukishima responds with a “Don’t worry, shorty! You could join in too, it’d be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for you and your boyfriend.”

Once they have finally turned the corner out of sight, Yamaguchi turns to his friend, half in awe, half angry. “Why do you say things like that all the time?” He snaps.

Tsukishima shrugs. “It’s fun, and they can take it. Besides, Kageyama was already obviously mad about something, I just added a little fuel to his fire.”

“Yeah, but.. But WHY?” Yamaguchi asks, his own annoyance giving out to intrigue.

Tsukishima bends down a little bit and presses his lips to Yamaguchi’s ear. 

“You see,” He whispers softly, deep undertones in his voice making Yamaguchi’s stomach curl in on itself and his face heat up, “I like seeing people suffer. It’s quite enjoyable.” Tsukishima pulls away from Yamaguchi, eyes glinting dangerously behind his unassuming black frames. This man holds such power, total control over Yamaguchi’s treacherous body.

He is pretty sure he’s hard, Jesus. Tsukishima is undoubtedly good at making people feel things, be it anger or lust. Just to be sure, Yamaguchi covers his front with the canvas that he had just now realized he was still holding.

“R-right.” Yamaguchi stutters out, his face certainly heating up quite a bit. Something Yamaguchi will always and forever be grateful for is the fact that Tsukishima does not possess the power to read minds, or at least to Yamaguchi’s knowledge. If he could, he’d most likely be horrified at what was currently passing through Yamaguchi’s consciousness. Or maybe he’d be turned on, now that Yamaguchi had a general grasp at Tsukishima’s kinks. 

Tsukishima was still raking his eyes over Yamaguchi’s face, gaze penetrating every last pore. One couldn’t help but feel scrutinized under his intense stare, which was only magnified by his thick lenses. “Ah, right,” Tsukishima suddenly said, snapping his fingers. His very long, sometimes bandaged, middle-blocker fingers. “Our canvases! As insignificant as this project seems, it's worth a shitton of points, is it not?” Only Tsukishima could drop curses in the middle of his sentences and still manage to sound so classy.

“Yeah, I think.” Yamaguchi mumbles, memory still hazy from previous events that he guesses would remain unspoken for the time being.

“We’d better hop to it, I suppose. You brought a pencil?” Tsukishima asks, knowing full well that Yamaguchi has one tucked behind his ear.

“Mhm.”

“Well, one pencil for the two of us will certainly be manageable.” If Yamaguchi had sensed any trace of suggestiveness in that sentence, he sure as hell isn’t going to bring it up. Tsukishima leads them over to the nearest table that they can work on, which happens to be located in a stairwell. There is a long window at the top of the stairwell where sunlight is streaming in, seeing as it is early in the May afternoon. 

“Ah yes, stairs. The preference of 5% of people. Say, if only there was a way to walk up stairs facing the back, so it wasn’t so tiring for people like you who prefer walking down stairs.” Tsukishima comments with dry sarcasm on his voice.

“That doesn’t make shit sense.” Yamaguchi states.

“You’ll come around to my intricate way of thinking soon enough. It’s practically a lifestyle at this point.”

“What is this, a cult where everyone thinks exactly like you do? Sounds terrifying.”

Tsukishima chuckles.

“No, my dear Yamaguchi.” His tone drops its laughter as he takes on a more serious voice. “It’s simply a nonconformist’s view on conformity.”

Yamaguchi giggles. “You're such a weirdo.”

“Some say that’s the most alluring part about me.”

“It’s definitely a contributing factor.” Shit, Yamaguchi has said too much. Tsukishima turns to him, one eyebrow raised with an intrigued grin on his face. Yamaguchi quickly changes the subject and focuses on his canvas.

“Alright, let’s start on this. Class will be over soon and we haven’t done jack shit.”

“That is sadly correct.”

“All we have is this one, half broken pencil.”

“And our brilliant minds.”

Yamaguchi huffs and slumps in his seat, facing Tsukishima.

“Well, at least we both acknowledge the fact that we don’t plan on taking this project very seriously.” Tsukishima starts.

“I never said that.” Yamaguchi frowns.

“You followed me out of the class with only a pencil, did you not? I believe that's on you.” Tsukishima looks at him over the top of his glasses. Yamaguchi stays quiet, knowing the accusation is true.

“We’re going to graduate this year and art is about the least of anyone’s worries. I can guarantee that not a single college gives a flying shit whether or not you used color on your fucking art project.” Tsukishima says the last part bitterly, clearly not fond of the assignment they have been given. 

“So, oh great nonconformist, what’s your plan for this creative thinking project?” Yamaguchi asks teasingly. 

“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know, my little muse. You see, I’ve been mulling over the ideas of a design so out of the box that it is, in all sense of the word, out of the box.” Tsukishima leans over his canvas, grabs the pencil from where it had been settling in the middle of their table, and draws a boxy rectangle smack dab in the middle of his canvas. The quick scrawl really says a lot about how highly he regards the project, Yamaguchi thinks incredulously to himself. 

“Now, for the finishing touch to this Picasso-like masterpiece..” Tsukishima quickly writes out his name, loopy cursive scratches in the canvas quite literally outside the box, so that they are floating in the blank space between the outer edges of the canvas and outside the space roped off by the central “box”. Yamaguchi can't decide whether Tsukishima’s idea is genius or just plain listless.

“You’re going to turn that shit in?” Yamaguchi gapes at Tsukishima. 

“Mrs-hobo-makeup is going to get my signature for free, I hope she hangs “this shit” up on a museum wall where it so rightfully deserves to reside. Now, what’ll we do for you?” Tsukishima asks Yamaguchi, hands folded innocently on the table with a smug smile on his face.

Tsukishima is truly an extraordinary being. Call him a jackass, or lazy, or weird, but never ordinary. No ordinary person could go so quickly from being completely passive to hormonally charged as he suddenly leans across the table, grabs Yamaguchi’s tie, and pulls him upwards into a kiss so unexpected it makes Yamaguchi’s stomach burn. The burn soon gives in to want and years of ignored lust and desire to be intimate with the blonde as Yamaguchi finds himself kissing back, trying his best to match Tsukishima’s intensity.

Tsukshima truly isn't playing around and soon shoves his tongue into Yamaguchi’s mouth, clearly not one for romantic gestures. All of which was fine, because the only thing Yamaguchi was currently interested in was how much of Tsukishima’s mouth he could explore and a genuine intrigue at how fast Tsukishima could make him hard with small gestures. They gripped at each other’s backs and waists before Tsukishima’s hands find their place in Yamaguchi’s hair, tugging widely and unlocking a turn-on Yamaguchi never knew he had, moans mercifully half covered by Tsukishima’s mouth fitted over his.

Yamaguchi has always recognized the fact that Tsukishima likes things his way, and that he always prefers to be in control, but Yamaguchi only truly realized the extent of these habits when Tsukishima bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He is a confused mix of terror and total attraction as he pulls away to see both his and Tsukishima’s mouthes dripping a small amount of blood down them. Jesus, Yamaguchi is learning all kinds of new things about himself today. Blood fetish? That’s a new one. 

Tsukishima wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning cheekily. “Looks like you got some on the canvas.” He points with his available hand. 

The fucking canvas was the least of Yamaguchi’s concerns at the moment, but he looks down nonetheless. Sure enough, spots of blood were now dotting the canvas' once perfectly white exterior. Yamaguchi supposes it’s sort of like a metaphorical representation of how just like the suddenly splattered canvas, Yamaguchi’s once pure heart has been completely tainted by his insane craving for the captivating blonde. 

“Well, shit.” Yamaguchi mutters out loud, voice a bit shaky, body not sure whether to kick into panic mode or serotonin overdrive. 

“Listen up.” Tsukishima growls, hand leaning forward on the table. Listen up, he will, happily. “I have two ideas. Either tell the teacher you started your period, or roll with what I say when we get back to class.” Yamaguchi can't snicker fast enough in response to Tsukishima’s snippy comment before the tall boy has reached for his mouth again, and they are suddenly both engrossed in making out heatedly, canvases and dumb art projects forgotten.

❖

They return to class just in time for the bell to ring, with most of the students filing out. The teacher looks at them with raised eyebrows, expecting them to have shitted out the Mona Lisa after all the time they had spent outside of class. 

Tsukishima clears his throat dramatically and nudges Yamaguchi to lift up their canvases. “Mrs, I present to you: ‘Outside the box’ and ‘Blood, sweat and tears’, respectively”.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what I should write abt next! I'm challenging myself to write one story a day, we'll see how long I can keep the streak going. As usual, luv u all <3 <3


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